


Spencer For Hire

by Teragram



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Six hours earlier</b></p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Spencer For Hire

 **Rating:** M for M/M masturbation, references to prostitution and IV drug use.

 **Pairings:** Shawn/Lassiter.

 **Warning:** Shassie slash. Hurt/comfort.

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **S** **ummary:** Shawn goes undercover as a male escort.

 **Note:** Thank-you to Mr. Pugh, who betas all my stuff. Acknowledgements also to Matt Adams, whose book, _Hustlers, Escorts, and Porn Stars: The Insider's Guide To Male Prostitution in America,_ was extremely useful, and to Todd Klinck, whose Trade articles written for _Fab Magazine_ provided an invaluable insight into escort life.

The night was uncomfortably warm, and Lassiter had all the windows on the Crown Vic lowered, hoping to catch a cross breeze. The air conditioning was acting up, just when he needed it most. His dress shirt was sticking to his back and front and he thought wistfully of a cool shower. He sipped his iced coffee. Stakeouts were always tedious, and holding them in an overheated car was an added torment.

"Do you want to look at these suspect photos again?" O'Hara asked. She sounded tired. The heat was probably knocking her out.

"No thanks. I've got it." Lassiter had spent hours studying the mugshots of violent sex offenders. If one of them showed his face tonight, he would spot him.

"There's another car," O'Hara said, jotting down the licence plate number. They watched as the driver got out and walked into the nondescript building. A few minutes later he came out again with a man in his early twenties and they drove away. It was a ritual they'd seen repeated for the last hour—different cars, different men, same behaviour.

He thought about the open robbery homicide case he had on his desk. Wealthy doctor Nelson Shapiro had come home on Wednesday night from a charity event to find his home burgled and his wife murdered. That was an important case. He'd gotten a phone call from the mayor that had told him in no uncertain terms not to screw it up. It looked bad—the kind of crime where they might never find the killer unless they could trace some of the stolen property. Thus far none of the stolen items had shown up on their radar.

The Shapiro's lawyer insisted that Dr. Shapiro was under sedation, too upset to speak to the police. He'd issued a statement, but given his social standing in Santa Barbara Lassiter had no chance of pulling him in for questioning.

 _It was probably pointless anyway,_ he reasoned. Shapiro's alibi checked out. He'd been seen at the charity fundraiser by over a hundred people. The break-in had been reported by a man walking his dog a half hour before Shapiro even left the event.

The SBPD lab crew was all over the house, looking for anything that might give them a lead. There wasn't much Lassiter could do on site. Still, he knew he'd rather be wandering the Shapiro's Spanish colonial revival mansion in Hope Ranch than sitting parked in this squalid alley.

He couldn't blame Chief Vick for insisting on the stakeout. Two words police chiefs hate to see on the cover of newspapers are "serial" and "killer," so he and O'Hara were expected to put in extra time to solve the murder of two male escorts and prevent a third from making the headlines. Lassiter wasn't even convinced the two killings were connected. Sure, both men had been found strangled in hotel rooms, but escorts did 90% of their work in hotel rooms and strangling was typical of sex murders. The credit cards used to rent the rooms were both fakes, but lots of johns probably used phoney cards for that sort of thing. Of course the victims had both worked for the same escort agency, which was why they were camped just outside its doors.

"This is pointless," Lassiter said. "That killer's probably long gone by now."

"But what if he isn't?" O'Hara said. "This way we have some information to work from. Maybe we'll see one of these prior offenders show up. Or maybe some of these licence plate numbers will give us a lead."

"We should just haul everyone in that agency in for interrogation," Lassiter offered. He felt most cases could benefit from more interrogation.

"They're not going to talk to us," O'Hara reminded him. "Sex workers don't trust the police. Menendez in vice has been working with these guys for years and they barely trust her."

"Whatever happened to the days when vice cops actually busted hookers instead of making friends with them?"

"Carlton, is this some kind of homophobia thing? Because I don't remember you being this hostile when we worked on that murder case at the massage parlour last year."

"What? No, it's not some homophobia thing. I don't have a problem with homosexuals." In fact, if his fantasy life could have been entered into evidence, O'Hara would have been surprised how unproblematic Lassiter actually found homosexuality. And she'd probably have raised an eyebrow at who was starring in those fantasies lately.

"I just think this whole business is repulsive," he said. "Men paying for sex with strangers." When it came to sex, Lassiter found himself firmly on the side of the romantic.

"People have needs, Carlton." O'Hara said. "You're a man. I'd think you could relate to that."

 _Sure,_ Lassiter thought, _I have needs. But they can be met without resorting to prostitutes._ In fact, for some time now satisfying his needs hadn't even involved another person. He wouldn't have said he was lonely exactly, but sometimes he did miss the little things about a relationship, like the companionship. And the incentive to eat sitting down at the table instead of over the sink, and to make something that didn't start off frozen. _And the regular sex_ , he acknowledged. _I do miss that._

"Nobody _needs_ to buy sex from drug addicts and abuse victims." He tried to direct the subject away from his sexual life, or lack thereof, and back to the case at hand. "I still think they know something." Experience had taught him that most people involved in a murder case knew _something_.

"Maybe they do," O'Hara admitted. "But they're not going to share it with us."

"Which is stupid, because we're the good guys."

"They probably don't see it that way."

"Which is why it's stupid." He finished his iced coffee and put the empty cup in a plastic bag.

"You know," O'Hara said, "A study at the University of Chicago found that sixteen percent of men had purchased a sex act."

"And they say university students are cheap." Lassiter sighed. He certainly hadn't spent his hard-earned university money on hookers. He'd barely even bought beer. He'd spent most of his evenings studying, and eating instant noodles out of a crockpot.

"That's sixteen percent of men, not of university students," O'Hara said.

"Well that's a segment of the population I'm proud not to belong to," Lassiter said. "Paying some hustler for sex is not my idea of a good time." Lassiter's idea of a good time was usually the classic dinner and a show. Although he'd discovered that what women considered a show was narrower than his own definition. His attempt to take a date to the gun show had not been a success.

"Actually," O'Hara said, "we're not supposed to say hustler. It's an offensive term."

"How offensive can it be?" Lassiter asked. "There's a magazine named Hustler."

"It's just as easy to say sex worker."

"It sounds like a ridiculous euphemism. Besides, it'd not like what's going on here is really work."

"I think the sex workers would disagree with you."

"Oh, I suppose none of this bothers you?" He gestured toward the small dark building they were watching.

"Actually," O'Hara said, "I'm in favour of decriminalization. I don't think this should be against the law."

"I'm sorry, where in the police handbook did it say you could just decide which crimes are real crimes and which crimes aren't?"

"We do that all the time." O'Hara looked at him with her brows knit above her big grey-blue eyes. "Do you arrest every jaywalker or litterbug you see?"

"I'd like to," Lassiter admitted. "But I got a lecture from Vick about that once. Personally, I think if people maliciously impede traffic they should be ready to pay the price."

"I just don't see why what two consenting adults decide to do together should be illegal." O'Hara yawned and slouched down in her seat.

"And I suppose you'd want your kid to work here?" Lassiter asked.

" _If_ I had a kid," O'Hara said, her voice tinged with hesitancy, "no I wouldn't want him working here."

"Of course you wouldn't." He tried not to sound smug.

"But I wouldn't want him working in a mine either," she added quickly, "and it doesn't mean I think mining should be illegal."

"But selling sex _is_ illegal and it's going to _stay_ illegal," Lassiter said. "These guys are all criminals. We shouldn't be guarding them, we should be running them in."

"If we did that we'd never catch the killer." Bright lights turned into the alleyway. "Hey, here's another car."

The blue Echo pulled to a stop and the passenger got out. He stopped to argue with the driver for a few moments and then walked toward the entrance as the car pulled away. Lassiter recognized Shawn Spencer just as O'Hara recognized the licence plate number she was jotting down.

"Oh my god!" O'Hara gasped. "It's Shawn."

"What the hell is he doing here?" Lassiter demanded as he watched Shawn enter the agency.

"He must be working," O'Hara said. "I mean, for Psych. He can't be… I mean I'm sure he's not…"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Lassiter said weakly. "Nothing about Spencer surprises me anymore."

"What, you think he's…" she lowered her voice to a whisper, despite the fact that they were alone, "…gay for pay?"

"I always kind of wondered about Spencer," he said. "Although the way he acts around the station I'm surprised there's any pay involved."

"It's got to be a Psych job," O'Hara said. "He wouldn't do sex work." She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself, rather than Lassiter. "Oh! You don't think he's here to pick up, do you?"

Lassiter's mind was swimming. Somehow, given Spencer's looks and exuberance, he couldn't picture him paying for sex. _Unless of course what he wanted to do was too twisted to suggest to a casual pickup…something only a professional would consent to doing…._ No. He couldn't picture Spencer wanting anything really sick.

It was less difficult to picture Spencer working as an escort. He'd read the guy's file. He hadn't held a steady job for more than six months at a time. It was a minor miracle that Psych had been running as long as it had. Some of his previous jobs weren't what Lassiter considered normal. And he didn't see Spencer as the type to have moral qualms about accepting money for sex.

 _Maybe Psych hasn't been paying the bills,_ Lassiter thought. A _nd maybe he needs some fast cash._

It was alarmingly easy to imagine Spencer with those men, meeting in dingy hotel rooms, doing whatever they demanded for a few hundred dollars. He didn't know whether to be repulsed or aroused, and if he was honest with himself, he was a little bit of both.

 _The idea is ridiculous_ , he told himself, as if to short-circuit a fantasy he was only half aware had been forming in the back of his mind. _Spencer has to be on a case. He has to be._

"If Spencer's here, then something is definitely going on," he said finally. "I'm going in there."

"You can't just blow his cover," O'Hara said. "What about professional courtesy?"

"People like Spencer don't get professional courtesy."

"Well you can't very well go in there flashing your badge and expect to not give our position away."

"Well what do you suggest I do?"

"Get him alone and talk to him. Explain that we're on a murder case and he needs to lend a hand or step aside."

"He can't lend a hand. He hasn't been hired." Lassiter disliked the idea of having Spencer joking his way through their double homicide.

"But he could find out things we can't," O'Hara pointed out. "He clearly has an in with those people. We could use that. Provided of course you don't go in there with guns blazing and blow whatever angle he's working."

"Fine," Lassiter capitulated. "I'll try not to blow his cover."

"How?" O'Hara was giving him a suspicious look. Lassiter didn't know if she thought he was incapable of being subtle or just lying to her about not outing Spencer.

"I'll think of something." Lassiter put his badge in his pocket, threw on his suit jacket to hide his service weapon and stepped out of the car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Six hours earlier**

**Six hours earlier**

"At last!" Shawn cried when Gus walked through the door to the Psych office. "I didn't think you were going to show today."

"It's only four o'clock. I came right from work." Gus' voice was tinged with suspicion. Whenever Shawn tried to pretend that he was the responsible one, he knew something was afoot.

"Yes," Shawn said, "but we have a client meeting in ten minutes and I thought you might need some convincing. It would have been better if you'd arrived forty minutes ago."

"Forty minutes ago I was in a Dr. Raynard's office, talking about nasal spray treatments for alopecia."

"Is that that dish with the potatoes and cauliflower that they show you how to make on the Bend It Like Beckham DVD?"

"That's Aloo Gobi."

"Indian dishes have such confusing names."

"It means potatoes and cauliflower in Hindi," Gus said. "How much more descriptive can it get?"

"Maybe there could be a picture." Shawn spun his chair in a circle, tossing a tennis ball in the air repeatedly.

"Who's the client we're supposed to be meeting?" Gus refused to allow Shawn to eat up the ten minutes with irrelevant discussions of Indian food. If Shawn thought Gus needed convincing it must be really bad.

"His name is Trevor Dacosta and he runs his own business."

"Okay," Gus said suspiciously. "What's the catch?"

"His Business is a little Risky." Shawn paused his spinning and smiled broadly at Gus. "He works the Night Shift."

"Are we being hired by hookers?" Gus gave Shawn his sternest look. "Is Trevor a pimp?"

"You're getting warm. Our client would make a great Wedding Date, but there's not a Pretty Woman on the payroll." Shawn waved a hand, as if to erase his last remark. "Actually there might be some working there in a clerical capacity. I'm not really sure."

"Shawn," Gus said, with as much patience as he could muster after an already long day, "I realize that all your business acumen comes from having watched Working Girl…."

"—that's not true!" Shawn cut in. "I also watched The Secret of My Success, Wall Street, and all two seasons of The Riches."

"Well then let me give you a free lesson. The clients we accept say something about our business. The detective business already has a shady reputation. I don't think we need to take on prostitutes as clients."

"It's a detective classic. Come on! It'll be like that episode of Spencer For Hire where they help that prostitute."

"Rockabye Baby or Resurrection?" Gus looked at Shawn, his expression thoughtful.

"I was thinking of Resurrection, but good call on Rockabye Baby. If Spencer and Hawk helped _two_ prostitutes we have to help at least one."

"Actually, in both those cases the women were _former_ prostitutes."

"I'm sure these guys will all retire someday. But they need our help now. And if we refuse to help them because they're not yet former prostitutes, isn't that just as bad as if we didn't help a former prostitute now? It's like Twelve Monkeys. The order in which things occur is irrelevant."

"Your logic leaves a lot to be desired. And that was not the message of Twelve Monkeys."

"Maybe you're right. I did spend a lot of time at the snack bar when they played it at the Cinema Vue. But that doesn't change the fact that these man-whores need our help. Avery Brooks would want you to help."

"He never helped any prostitutes in A Man Called Hawk," Gus pointed out. "And frankly, I prefer his work on Deep Space Nine. But regardless of what they say in Deuce Bigelow, 'man-whores' is probably an offensive term. I'm just saying."

"Avery Brooks would totally help prostitutes. He's a streetwise champion of the people and a sharp dresser who pioneered the shaved head look."

"First of all, Isaac Hayes already had a shaved head on the LP cover of Presenting Isaac Hayes in 1968. Spencer For Hire didn't air until 1985. And Mr. Brooks is not a streetwise champion of the people; Hawk, the character he played was." Gus frowned at Shawn. "Avery Brooks is a respected actor and musician. Plus, he's a professor at Rutgers."

"Molly Stewart graduated from college in Avenging Angel," Shawn said, bringing the subject back to prostitution.

"But by the third film she was working as a photographer instead of pursuing her dreams of law school," Gus said. "I rest my case."

A deep voice at the door joined in, "But in Angel 4: Undercover, Molly's become a police photographer." Shawn and Gus turned to see a muscular man in a dress shirt and jeans. "That's a respectable career," he said as he entered the office. "And she goes undercover as a groupie, not as a sex worker."

"Thank-you!" Shawn said. "For proving my point. You must be Trevor Dacosta." Shawn rose and shook the man's hand. "We spoke on the phone." He turned to Gus. "This is my associate, Fred Garvin."

"That's not my name," Gus said to Trevor.

"He's right," Shawn said. "It's Antoine Laconte."

Gus stepped forward and offered his hand. "Actually, It's Burton Guster. Nice to meet you."

The man grasped Gus' hand in a firm friendly handshake. "No problem. I'm used to meeting people who aren't using their real name. Call me Trevor. Has Shawn briefed you on my problem?"

"Not yet," Gus glared at Shawn. "Why don't you outline it for me?" Gus motioned for Trevor to sit on the small sofa by the window.

"Sure." Trevor ran a hand through his short brush cut. "I run out of an office on East Ortega St. We're an escort agency."

"Pardon my ignorance," Gus said. "But how is it that you can run an escort agency and not get busted by the police. Prostitution is illegal."

"Technically, we're only selling the connection with the escort. We earn our agency fees by offering advertising, web profiles, and various administration services. We have them sign a contract specifying that they're not offering sexual services, but that's just to cover our ass in the event of arrest."

"Tell him about the murders," Shawn advised.

"Murders?" Gus looked interested.

"Yeah," Trevor said. "Two of our escorts have been killed in the last two days. Lamar didn't show up for work on Thursday night. He didn't answer his phone. Ryan, another one of our escorts, had a key to his place and went over to check it out. Lamar wasn't our most reliable guy. But the apartment was empty. His body was found later that night in a hotel room on State Street. He'd been hit over the head and strangled. Then last night a man called up and requested a particular type of guy and we sent Ryan. The escorts are supposed to call us twice – once to confirm the connection and a second time to let us know they're done. But we never got that second call. We tried calling him, but there was no answer on his cell. We called the hotel number the client had provided and there was no answer there either. Eventually we sent our security guy, Big Mike, to check on him. The room was deserted except for Ryan's body. Big Mike called the cops right away."

"And you want Shawn to solve the murders?" Gus asked.

"Not necessarily. The cops are working on that," Trevor said. "My concern is keeping the rest of my employees alive while the investigation goes on. As you can imagine, they're pretty jumpy. Until this is cleared up I'm having all the clients come by the office to pick up their dates. I need Shawn to read the clients psychically and see which ones are dangerous."

"Tell me about the date Ryan went on," Shawn said. "The client asked for Ryan specifically?"

"No. He asked for a particular type and we sent Ryan."

"What type?"

"White. Dark hair. Early to mid thirties. He's lucky we had anyone. The escorts at Bodyboys are in their twenties." Trevor laughed. "But we got a few guys who turn twenty-nine more than once. Ryan was really stretching that last year."

"So your agency is like the Menudo of escorts," Shawn said.

Trevor laughed. "Bodyboys does focus on the twenties. We've got a brother agency, Mandate, which specializes in escorts in their thirties and forties."

"Guys do this kind of work into their forties?" Gus said.

"You'd be surprised," Trevor said. "Some of our most popular escorts are over forty."

Shawn threw up his hands and tilted his head as if listening to a voice only he could hear. "The spirit world tells me that someone wanted to see Ryan in particular, and gave a description that would guarantee he'd be matched with him. Is that possible?"

"That's totally possible," Trevor said, looking amazed. "I knew I came to the right place."

"I'll do it," Shawn said. "I'll scan your johns for you."

"Great. The calls for Lamar and Ryan both came in after midnight. Come by tonight around ten, just to be sure."

Trevor had just left the office when Gus turned his serious face on Shawn.

"If we're taking it we need to get a few things straight," Gus said. He took a deep breath. "First off, despite what you told Trevor, you can't really read minds. They'd have just as much luck screening their clients with a magic eight ball. I don't feel good about lying to people if we could be putting their lives in danger."

"Don't be Tipper Gore at a Twisted Sister concert," Shawn said, throwing his tennis ball against the wall. "I can read body language. I'll spot anyone whose words don't match up with their signals, or who's giving off deception markers. You've watched Lie To Me. We'll look for micro-expressions and stuff. If I get any sense that someone is dangerous I'll flag Trevor or Big Mike." He laughed. "Big Mike. I love that. We need to get a security guy we can call by an obvious yet intimidating nickname."

"Okay," Gus said, relieved. "That body language thing might actually work. Second of all, no matter where this case leads, I am not going undercover as a gay escort. Are we clear on that?"

"Really? I think that would be awesome. It'd be like when we posed as Black and Tan for that murder case."

"You mean the murder case that was supposed to be my birthday present? I remember just fine. But the answer is still no."

"Dude, think of the fun."

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Gus raised his voice slightly. "What part of some creepy dude trying to pay you for sex do you find fun?"

"Seeing as you find the idea of _any_ dude wanting to have sex with you creepy, I don't think you can really appreciate the fantasy."

"True that."

"As the great Salt N' Pepa said, 'the difference between a hooker and a 'ho ain't nothing but a fee.' Promiscuity would be _so_ much more fun if I were getting paid for it."

"You're not promiscuous, Shawn."

"I beg to differ."

"Promiscuous means you have no discrimination when it comes to your sexual partners."

"And your point?"

"You discriminate."

"Me? Please! I'm the United Colors of Benetton of casual sex."

"But I bet everyone you've slept with met a particular set of criteria," Gus began to count off on his fingers, "They're cute—at least to you, they're quirky, you can picture them in a John Hughes movie, even if it's only in a minor role, they tolerate your insatiable desire for attention, need I go on?"

"Fair enough. But I still think the escort fantasy is fun in a Pretty Woman sense. I want to use someone's credit card to shop on Rodeo Drive and really stick it to those snobs who wouldn't serve me."

"Which is one of the reasons—all sexual orientation issues aside—that I'm glad we're friends, and not boyfriends. If you try to use my credit card for that I'm reporting it as stolen." Gus turned on his laptop. If Shawn was serious about this case, he'd need to do some background research. "Plus," he added as the desktop loaded, "I seriously doubt that any of their clients look like Richard Gere. And even if they did, my answer is still no."

Shawn remained silent for several moments, spinning his chair again. Gus began to suspect Shawn was feeling upset. One of the signs was when he stopped talking for more than a few minutes at a time.

"Shawn," he said in his conciliatory voice, "you know I'm cool with whoever you want to sleep with. We've had that conversation in junior high, and again in high school, and again my senior year of college. But this isn't the same as when you dated that dude from the waterpark or that guy who drove the Hershey's Kissmobile float."

"First off, don't tell me you didn't love having free tickets to Las Casitas Water Adventure. And second, the Kissmobile guy was super cute and he got me free chocolates. Would you have preferred I date the Spammobile guy?" Shawn looked thoughtful. "Do you think they use a giant metal key to start that thing?"

"I don't care who you date or what he drives," Gus said. "And yes, the tickets to Waterworld were welcome and timely. That was one of Santa Barbara's hottest summers on record. But this is business. And escorting is a dangerous business. So I'm not going to play the sanky panky."

"I think you mean the hanky panky."

"A sanky is a gigolo, Shawn."

"Fair enough. But will you do the Hokey Pokey?"

"I'll drop you off and do any research you need here at the office. But for the rest of it, you're on your own."

Shawn frowned. "You don't want to be the Hawk to my Spencer?"

"How about you be Quincy and I'll be Sam Fujiyama, the guy who stayed behind and did all Quincy's damn work while he was off investigating and trying to pick up."

"Being Hawk would be cooler."

"But being Sam is safer." Gus didn't bother to mention that Robert Ito had done voice work for the Justice League cartoon and Jackie Chan Adventures, or that he'd also been a dancer in the National Ballet of Canada. His idea of cool didn't always match up with Shawn's.


	3. Spencer For Hire Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shawn was greeted by Trevor as soon as he walked into the Bodyboys agency. The door opened onto a small lounge. The walls were painted black and the lighting was low to smooth over the physical faults of both the room and its occupants. A bar took up the wall on the far left and plush seating dotted the rest of the area. Music was playing but not so loud that conversation was impossible. Men needed to be able to negotiate here.

Shawn was greeted by Trevor as soon as he walked into the Bodyboys agency. The door opened onto a small lounge. The walls were painted black and the lighting was low to smooth over the physical faults of both the room and its occupants. A bar took up the wall on the far left and plush seating dotted the rest of the area. Music was playing but not so loud that conversation was impossible. Men needed to be able to negotiate here.

"I've briefed the guys on you, so just do your thing," Trevor said. "Welcome the clients in, offer them a drink from the bar, chat with them a little, and if they scan okay then suggest they mingle a little and get to know the guys."

Shawn introduced himself to some of the escorts and chatted amicably waiting for the door to open. He was not expecting Carlton Lassiter to walk in. Right away he knew Lassiter was working. The bulge of his gun was obvious to anyone with a trained eye, and either his badge was crammed into his front pocket or he was very happy to see him. And if he wasn't sporting the badge, then he must be trying to work undercover. Shawn laughed to himself. Lassie looked horribly out of place. For one thing, he didn't look horny—just anxious and defensive.

 _This is going to be fun,_ Shawn thought.

"Good evening sir," Shawn said. "Welcome to Bodyboys. You look sexually repressed. Can I interest you in some hot man-on-man action?" Shawn stepped in close to the tall detective and slowly ran a hand down his tie and the front of his suit jacket, stopping just above his belt line.

"What?" Lassiter tensed. Maybe he'd been wrong and Shawn wasn't working a case.

"My rate is two hundred for the first hour," Shawn said, pressing himself up against Lassiter. "For another hundred I'll wear a Hawaiian shirt and you can call me Danno."

Lassiter counted to ten. Slamming Shawn into a wall would not go over here. It would definitely attract the attention of the large security man standing against the far wall. At the very least it would destroy the illusion that he was here as a customer.

"Let's find somewhere we can talk," Lassiter suggested. He draped an arm across Shawn's shoulder and walked him over to the bar. Lassiter ordered a cranberry juice, paid in cash, and stood with his back against the bar, watching the room. His arm remained curled around Shawn. It was necessary to keep his cover, he told himself, but it was also disturbingly comfortable.

Lassiter pitched his voice low, out of hearing of the bartender. "You wouldn't be breaking California Penal Code 647 (b) PC, prostitution and solicitation, now would you Spencer?"

"Is this a sting operation, Lassie?" Shawn leaned in and spoke into Lassiter's ear. "Shouldn't you have waited until we agreed upon the sex for money deal?"

"I'm not here to arrest you." Lassiter sipped his drink.

"I should hope not. First, I know you're a cop. And second, knowing what a cop makes I know you couldn't possibly afford me. At least not for the really good stuff. Maybe some dirty talk and mutual masturbation."

Lassiter choked on his drink and swallowed hard.

"O'Hara and I are outside on a stakeout for this double homicide. I assume you're working it too."

The door opened, and an older man in a suit entered the lounge.

"Excuse me, Lassipants. I'm on."

Shawn went up to the newcomer, a grey haired man of medium build. He looked vaguely familiar. Shawn took one look at his expensive manicure, his Barker Black leather shoes, and his J. Press suit and knew the man had money. He could have afforded a top of the line escort, so why was he slumming here in the mid range?

"Hello," Shawn smiled his most seductive smile. "Welcome to Bodyboys. I'm Shawn."

"You can call me Adam," the man said. Whatever else he was, Shawn was 100% sure his name wasn't Adam.

"Can I interest you in a drink?" Shawn asked. Adam nodded and smiled and Shawn walked him to the end of the bar furthest from Lassiter. Adam ordered a rum and coke and paid with a crisp twenty. Already Shawn's spidey sense was tingling. Adam was being physically friendly—touching his arm, gliding a hand down Shawn's back and ass—but his smile hadn't engaged his eyes.

 _He's just going through the motions_.

"Is this your first visit?" Shawn asked.

"What? Oh, yes," Adam replied. His right shoulder shrugged.

 _Okay, not his first time here._

"So what kind of date are you looking for?" Shawn smiled, and leaned casually against the wall, watching Adam carefully. His body language was all wrong for someone initiating a sexual encounter. His pupils weren't dilated, and he hadn't dropped his glance to check out Shawn's body even once. A few times he'd briefly wrinkled his nose, indicating disgust. His feet were pointed toward the door instead of at Shawn.

 _He wants to leave_ , Shawn thought _, but he's forcing himself to stay. Interesting._

"I heard there was some trouble here recently," Adam said, looking down at his drink. "Some of the guys died."

"Yeah," Shawn said. "Ryan and Lamar. Someone murdered them."

"That's too bad." Adam looked at Shawn. "I'm sorry to hear that."

 _He's trying to fake sincerity,_ Shawn thought, _but he's blinking way too much_.

"Did you know either of them?" Shawn asked.

"Me? No. No, I didn't know those men. Why would I know them?" Adam shifted his weight on his feet and then shifted again.

 _Classic lie._

"I feel pretty bad about the deaths," Shawn said, playing a hunch. "Ryan and I were really close. We talked a lot. How did you feel when you heard?"

"I guess I felt bad," Adam said. "I mean, who wouldn't, right?" He removed a speck of lint from his left arm then looked at Shawn again. "How close were you and Ryan?"

Shawn's pulse rose. When asked a question about his feelings the man should have looked down and to the right, but he didn't. So we wasn't really feeling bad. The lint picking was a classic sign of disapproval.

 _Whatever else happens here tonight_ , Shawn thought, _I can't let anyone leave with this guy. This calls for something drastic._ And then he remembered where he'd seen Adam before.

* * *

Lassiter sipped his cranberry juice and watched Spencer taking to the john. The guy looked familiar but it was hard to be sure in the dim light. He'd seen Spcncer with women before—hell, the guy had brought a girl on a date to one of their crime scenes—but it felt odd seeing him be so casually sexual with a man. The guy had his hands all over Spencer and the fake psychic was just…letting him. A lump of anger and protectiveness welled up from his stomach and he forced himself to rein his feelings in. He tore his eyes away and stared at the door.

 _This is stupid. I shouldn't even be here. I should be back at my desk working on that robbery homicide._ It had already been three days and all they had was that the alarms hadn't been tripped and there weren't any prints but those belonging to the family and staff. Mrs. Shapiro's body had been found in the hall. She'd left the charity event early, probably walked in on the burglary in progress. She'd been bludgeoned with a sculpture they kept on a table in the foyer.

Suddenly Lassiter turned back to Spencer and the john. Now he realized where he'd seen him before. Shawn was talking to Dr. Nelson Shapiro. Shapiro, the well-known philanthropist. Shapiro, whose deceased wife had been friends with the mayor's wife. Shapiro, whose high priced lawyer had blocked Lassiter's attempt to even question him. This Shapiro was now in a gay escort agency trying to pick up Shawn Spencer. As tempted as he was to bust him and let him stew in the holding cells over the weekend, he knew that the mayor would have a fit.

Lassiter stepped in and grabbed Shapiro by the arm. He pulled his badge from his pocket and flashed it, using his body to shield it from the view of the other patrons.

"We've got to get you out of here, Dr. Shapiro," Lassiter said, speaking low. "There's going to be a raid."

"Oh," Shapiro said. "Thanks." He looked momentarily dazed. He stared at Shawn strangely then walked haltingly toward the door.

"Why did you do that?" Shawn hissed at Lassiter.

"Because that's Dr. Nelson Shapiro. He shouldn't even be here. His wife was killed on Wednesday. The man's obviously grieving and not thinking clearly."

Lassiter didn't really believe what he'd said to Shawn. _Shapiro's either such a sex addict that even the death of his wife can't make him keep it in his pants,_ he thought _, or else he wasn't remotely sorry to see his wife out of the picture._

"Oh, I'm pretty sure that he _was_ thinking clearly," Shawn said.

Lassiter put an arm on the wall next to Shawn's head and leaned in. He intended it to be intimidating, and if he'd done it at the station it might have been. But in the low lit room with the music in the background, it felt entirely different. Suddenly Lassiter realized that he'd been considering kissing Spencer. He hadn't planned it, he hadn't really even thought about it. But their close proximity and Shawn's upturned face must have been giving him some kind of cues that his body responded to on a subconscious level. At least that's what he was telling himself.

 _Thank God I caught myself in time_ , he thought. _Did Spencer notice? He couldn't have._

"Look Spencer," he said, leaning back and taking a deep breath. "I don't need my upscale robbery homicide getting mixed in with my downscale double homicide."

"Too late, Lassie. Your chocolate is already all up in your peanut butter. I'm pretty sure that guy," Shawn gestured at the door, where Shapiro had just exited, "killed Ryan and Lamar." Shawn lifted his chin and stared defiantly into Lassiter's eyes.

 _Still kissable._

"The hustlers?" Lassiter's brow wrinkled.

"Escorts."

"Whatever." Lassiter looked thoughtful. "What makes you think that?"

"His aura is tinged with the blood of the innocent. He's giving off bad vibes and evil vibrations." Shawn wished that he could tell Lassiter how he really knew.

Lassiter clenched his jaw and turned away. "I should have known I couldn't get a straight answer out of you."

Shawn grabbed his arm. "How about the fact that he agreed to meet me at my place to pay me hush money once I told him how close Ryan and I were? Is that suspicious enough?"

"I didn't know you knew one of the victims." He looked at Shawn appraisingly. _How close was he to these people?_

"I didn't. I was lying. Catch up with me Lassifrass."

"Okay. Yes, that's odd." Lassiter licked his lips, which felt suddenly dry. "Do you, uh, think he might have thought he was making a date? For sex?"

"No," Shawn said. "I'm pretty sure he's planning on killing me instead."

"Listen Spencer, you are not to put yourself in harm's way." Lassiter pointed a finger at Shawn and jabbed the air for emphasis. "If what you say is true we'll set up a sting and catch him before anyone gets hurt." He grabbed Shawn's arms and shook him. "You are not going to cowboy your way through this, understand?"

"How about if I Midnight Cowboy my way through it?" Shawn's laugh vibrated slightly from the shaking.

Suddenly Trevor was there, his muscular arms crossed disapprovingly.

"Everything okay here, Shawn?" Shawn could see Big Mike, standing at attention in the distance, alert for a signal from Trevor.

"Everything's fine, Trevor. In fact, it's great. I'll stay and finish out the night, but I'm confident that our killer just left." Shawn glanced at Lassiter and back at Trevor. "He's known to the cops and I sense they're on his trail."

"Really? That's great." Trevor looked relieved. He smiled at Lassiter. "Can I get your friend another drink?"

"No thanks," Lassiter grumbled. "I was leaving anyway."

* * *

It was two o'clock when Shawn stepped into the alley behind the Bodyboys agency. A set of headlights down the alley flashed and the familiar Crown Vic pulled into view. Lassiter was alone.

"Were you waiting for me?" Shawn asked.

"I was on a stakeout," Lassiter answered curtly. "I do work, you know."

"Where's Jules?"

"I sent her home. She was exhausted." For that matter, Lassiter wasn't feeling very spry himself.

"Why did you continue your stakeout now that you know about Shapiro?" Shawn asked.

"If what you said about him is true," Lassiter said, "he might try to kill you sooner, rather than later."

"Awwww," Shawn said. "You're here to protect me!"

"Call it what you like. I'm just doing my job."


	4. Spencer For Hire Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gus was already in the Psych office when Shawn arrived the next evening. Shawn raised his arms for attention. "And…I solved the case."

Gus was already in the Psych office when Shawn arrived the next evening. Shawn raised his arms for attention. "And…I solved the case."

"You did?" Gus raised his eyebrows. "That was fast. Let me guess, the killer tried to kill you too?"

"No." Shawn walked to the sofa and sat, putting his arms behind his head. "But I totally spotted him with his mismatched body language. I'm like Dr. Cal Lightman, only younger and hotter. Without all that angst and familial strife."

"Spotting one suspicious guy does not make you a psychologist, even a fictional one.," Gus said. When Shawn didn't respond he went back to reading an online article about nasal drug delivery.

"Don't you want to know who dunnit?" Shawn asked after a few moments.

"Of course I do!" Gus spun his chair to face Shawn. "But I shouldn't have to ask. I'm your partner. You should just tell me."

"Dude, it's like The Fugitive. The doctor killed his wife."

"That's the complete opposite of the Fugitive," Gus said.

"Exactly. It's uncanny."

"And that's the wrong case. " Gus looked thoughtful for a moment, then recognition dawned on his face. "You're talking about that Shapiro case. I read about it in The Courier. The police are stumped and under a lot of pressure from the mayor's office. Frankly, I was surprised they hadn't called us in on it."

"Well now they don't have to, because I'm neck deep in it."

"I don't remember Harrison Ford picking up male prostitutes in The Fugitive," Gus said. "I didn't see the original show, but it was the sixties, so I'm guessing David Janssen didn't either. How does this connect up with our escort case?"

"I'm going out on a limb here," Shawn said, "but I think he hired Lamar to burgle the house and call it in to the cops as a robbery homicide. That way he could go home, bludgeon his wife, and have a perfect alibi."

"What was to prevent Shapiro's wife from calling the cops herself when she got home and found the place robbed?" Gus asked.

Shawn was silent for several moments. Finally he said, "I don't know. That's a good point. Damn it, Gus. Why'd you have to go and ruin my brilliant solution."

"Hang on," Gus said. "Maybe he gave his wife something that made her feel bad enough to leave the charity event and knocked her out when she got home. Or better yet, he gave something to Lamar and had him knock her out before he burgled the place."

"That's good," Shawn said. "I like that. I can already see how I'll work Lamar lunging with the syringe into my vision. Or I could channel the spirit of the drugged Mrs. Shapiro."

"Wait." Gus frowned. "How do we know that he didn't just hire Lamar to kill his wife in the first place?"

"I talked to some of the guys," Shawn said. "Lamar was a flake, and always in need of cash. But I don't think he was a killer. The guy didn't even eat meat. In fact, I think he got cold feet about the whole thing and told his roommate, Ryan. That's why Shapiro had to kill them both. He killed Lamar when they arranged to meet up for the payoff. Either Ryan tried to blackmail him, or killing him was just insurance. Either way, they're both dead. And who would think to link the murder of some male prostitutes with a murder in swanky Hope Ranch?"

"That's nicely done," Gus admitted. "We've solved our case and the case that had the cops stumped. I see front page for this one. When the reporters interview you, try to mention the name of the agency this time. And use my proper name. You know my mom tapes those things."

"The case isn't totally wrapped up yet," Shawn admitted. I still need to prove it. But I've got a date with the killer this afternoon. I should have it all wrapped up by dinner time. I'm thinking Red Robin to celebrate."

"Where are you meeting Shapiro?" Gus asked.

"We're meeting at my place," Shawn said. "I told him Ryan and I were close. Like tell-each-other-everything close. And I told him I wanted twenty grand to keep quiet about it. I figured that was enough to make him want to kill me rather than pay me."

"Hold the phone," Gus said. "You're luring the killer to your home, hoping he'll try to kill you? Are you insane?"

"Relax. I'll have Lassie and Jules as backup."

"Where are you planning on hiding them?" Gus asked, thinking of the tiny apartment where Shawn was currently staying. "Behind the sofa?"

"They won't let anything happen to me. Jules is smart. And Lassiter loves any excuse to shoot something. Besides, I think he likes me. Like, likes-me likes me."

"Whaaaat?" Gus wrinkled his brow. "No, Shawn. I think I can safely say that he doesn't."

"I never really noticed it before. But last night it was so obvious. His feet were pointed at me, his pupils were like headlights and I think he almost kissed me."

"How does someone _almost_ kiss you?"

"He kind of almost leaned in to kiss me, but didn't."

"Almost leaned? I think that's some wishful thinking on your part. It's like when Jessica Wheaton almost asked you to the prom."

"She would totally have asked me, if we hadn't been interrupted by my head getting slammed into the locker by her boyfriend."

"Your fixation on Lassiter is crazy, Shawn. It's just a distraction you use to keep your brain busy when there's no actual work. It's like when Sherlock Holmes uses cocaine. Lassiter is your cocaine, Shawn. It's not good for you and you should leave it alone."

"I know what you're going to say. You think Lassiter's too straight-laced, and probably straight. Or if we date I'll spill about not being psychic and he'll arrest us and ruin our business …"

"—no, actually." Gus cut in. "I'm pretty sure he wouldn't. He's grown to tolerate you, despite knowing in his bones that you're a fake. But he _is_ out of your league."

"What?" Shawn looked at Gus incredulously. "He isn't!"

"He's completely out of your league, Shawn. He's a man. He has investments. He has a career. He isn't wearing the same kind of clothes he wore in junior high. You don't date men. You date guys."

"I could date a man," Shawn said.

"I don't think you could," Gus said. "You're just not a man's man. You're a guy's guy. No offence meant. I'm just saying."

"Lassiter could totally go for me," Shawn insisted. "Sure, he's got this chilly exterior, but I just need to break through the ice."

"That's a terrible metaphor, Shawn."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Because if you break through the ice you'll fall into the water," Gus explained. "And hypothermia can kill a man in twenty minutes."

"I'll wear a wet suit," Shawn said.

"Just so you remember how I told you so," Gus said, returning to his article.

* * *

Shawn opened the apartment door and led Lassiter, O'Hara and Gus inside. Lassiter had protested vigorously against Shawn being left alone with a man who had already killed three people. Chief Vick had over-ruled him, pointing out that since Shapiro had already met Shawn at the escort agency they couldn't very well replace him with one of the undercover guys. Shawn had weighed in by claiming that the spirit of Xaviera Hollander had told him he was the only chance they had for catching their killer. Lassiter had tried to point out that Xaviera Hollander was alive and well and living in Amsterdam, but Shawn had simply claimed it must be her astral projection.

Despite Shawn's assurances about his safety, Gus had insisted on coming. Shawn's apartment was small, physically clean but messy and undecorated. The coffee table held the leavings of several days of take-out, and there were cardboard boxes scattered about, as if someone was in the midst of packing or unpacking.

"This place is perfect," Lassiter said. "It's seedy and cheap. Who'd you borrow it from?"

"This is my place."

"Oh." Lassiter was at a loss for words. Shawn looked at Gus for support but he merely raised an eyebrow as if to reiterate the distinction between guys and men.

"I'm moving in a week," Shawn said defensively. Next week he'd be house-sitting for a friend who was going to Nice for a month. The friend had a loft apartment and Shawn was looking forward to driving a bicycle around in it, like in Quicksilver.

"Well, it fits the bill," Lassiter said. "Shapiro should have no trouble believing an escort lives here."

Shawn caught Gus' eye and through a brief series of frantic head movements suggested he take O'Hara elsewhere, leaving him alone with Lassiter.

"Juliet," Gus said with transparent enthusiasm, "let me show you the back door." He walked with her toward the far exit. "It goes directly to a parking lot." He led her outside, giving Shawn a warning glare as they left.

Lassiter set the case he'd brought on the kitchen counter and removed the microphone and transmitter unit. Shawn pulled off his t-shirt and stood there while Lassiter checked the connections on the equipment.

"How about me?" Shawn asked. "Am I convincing? Do I come across like a real escort?"

Lassiter thought back to Shawn's interactions with Shapiro at the agency.

"Yeah," he said finally. "You're very convincing." Something in his voice made Shawn curious.

"You didn't really think I was working there, did you?" he asked.

"As an escort or as a detective?" Lassiter proceeded to tape the transmitter to Shawn's abdomen, running the tape around to his back and then smoothing it down with his fingertips. Shawn leaned in and smelled Lassiter's hair in what he hoped was a subtle gesture.

"As an escort."

"No," Lassiter said, although he hesitated longer on the word than he would have if he'd meant it. "I was pretty sure you were working on a case." He ran the microphone wire up to Shawn's collarbone and taped it in place.

"Only pretty sure?" Shawn laughed. "So…" Shawn took a deep breath. "If I had been working, would you have ever considered…"

"I couldn't afford you, remember?" Lassiter's voice was serious, but Shawn sensed that he was joking.

"Isn't the first one free?" Shawn asked. "You, know, to get you hooked?"

Lassiter didn't respond. "None of these wires will be visible once you've got your shirt on," he said finally, smoothing tape along Shawn's pectoral muscles. "So you don't need to worry that he'll spot it."

"I'm not worried," Shawn said. At the moment he was more concerned about getting an erection while being wired for sound. He distracted himself by mentally naming all the characters from Sixteen Candles.

"You're all set," Lassiter stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. "We'll be recording the whole thing from just outside. Ideally, we want him admitting to having killed his wife."

"And Lamar and Ryan." Shawn pulled his shirt on and checked to ensure no wires were visible. Just to be safe he grabbed a blue checked overshirt and put that on as well.

"Yes, and Lamar Valdez and Ryan Tran," Lassiter agreed. Although both of them knew that the police department, the mayor, and the papers would be more concerned about the murder of the popular socialite than about either of the two escorts. "At the first sign of trouble you say your line and we'll be in here in seconds. What's the line?"

"I've got a pineapple." Shawn glanced at the counter, where he did, in fact, have a pineapple.

"Perfect."

"That should do it," Lassiter said just as Gus and O'Hara returned to the apartment.

"I think Gus and I will stake out the back," O'Hara said. "Shapiro might not want to be seen, so he may come in that way."

"Fine," Lassiter said. "I'll be out front., listening to everything you say in here." He looked at his watch. "Shapiro's expected at one, but we should take our positions now in case he's early." He put a hand on Shawn's shoulder. "Don't try anything stupid, Spencer. Just stick to the plan."

Shapiro was twenty minutes early but Shawn still felt as if he'd been waiting forever. The doctor came to the back door, like O'Hara thought he might. Shawn invited him in and told him to make himself comfortable. Shapiro looked around, but his eyes didn't linger on any particular place.

 _He's looking to make sure we're alone_ , Shawn thought.

"Have a seat," Shawn gestured toward the couch.

Shapiro shook his head. "I prefer to stand."

"Did you bring the money?" Shawn asked. He figured a real blackmailer would be all about the money, and he wanted to sound genuine.

"Of course I did." Shapiro walked slowly around the apartment, taking in every detail. "So what exactly did Ryan tell you?"

"What do you think he told me?" Shawn asked. It this was going to work he needed to keep Shapiro talking.

"Did he mention the break-in at my house?" Shapiro asked.

 _He's being careful_ , Shawn thought. _Not wanting to give anything away that I might not already know._

"That supposed break-in?" Shawn said, laughing lightly. "Yeah. How did you get Lamar to do it?"

"Like everything else," Shapiro said, turning to face Shawn. "Money. Lamar agreed to anything once I promised him enough."

"But Lamar didn't get paid, did he?" Shawn prodded. "Why'd you have to kill him? He was flaky, sure, but he was a nice guy."

"Lamar couldn't keep his mouth shut," Shapiro said. "He didn't realize Elaine was going to die. He thought it was just an insurance scam. But once he knew he had second thoughts. He broke our agreement."

"And Ryan tried to blackmail you."

"Ryan was greedy, and there wasn't any guarantee that he could keep his mouth shut even if I paid him. Can you? Keep your mouth shut?'

"I sure can," Shawn said. He grinned. "I'm like that girl from the Miracle Worker."

"Helen Keller?"

"Yeah. She was mute, right?"

"No, she was deaf and blind. She could speak fine and actually went on lecture tours around the country."

"Oh," Shawn said. "I knew I should have watched past the first few minutes of that film."

"We agreed on twenty thousand," Shapiro said. He placed a stack of fifty dollar bills on the counter. It was an inch and a half thick, which was about right, but somehow Shawn doubted Shapiro intended to let him keep it. The money was just for show. Shawn walked over to it and thumbed through the stack. Shapiro would expect him to, and getting his fingerprints on it would help in court.

"I've got to take my medication," Shapiro said, fumbling in his pocket. "Could you get me a cold drink?"

"Oh, sure. I'm sorry, I should have thought to offer you something." Shawn walked into the kitchen and peered into the fridge. "I've got Sunny D," he called to Shapiro.

When the syringe entered his neck Shawn had time to be disappointed in himself for not having been more cautious. A few seconds later, he didn't even care.


	5. Spencer For Hire Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first Lassiter wondered if the transmitter had broken. He hadn't heard any conversation for about a minute. And in a situation like this, a minute was a long time. He decided to wait, but each moment that crawled by he was tormented by images of Shawn being hit in the head and strangled. He wanted to move in, but he knew that busting in prematurely could end their only shot at getting Shapiro. Then his radio crackled to life. It was O'Hara.

At first Lassiter wondered if the transmitter had broken. He hadn't heard any conversation for about a minute. And in a situation like this, a minute was a long time. He decided to wait, but each moment that crawled by he was tormented by images of Shawn being hit in the head and strangled. He wanted to move in, but he knew that busting in prematurely could end their only shot at getting Shapiro. Then his radio crackled to life. It was O'Hara.

"Shapiro's coming out."

 _Damn. Something had definitely gone wrong._

"Grab him," he radioed O'Hara. "I'm going in there." He headed for the door, not sure what he was going to find and berating himself for having allowed Shawn to put himself in harms way.

Shawn was lying on the sofa only semi conscious. His breathing was shallow, his lips were slightly blue and his pupils were tiny. He was high as a kite, and probably going into overdose.

"Lassie!" Shawn smiled a goofy grin at the detective, who loomed over him. "I knew you'd come."

Lassiter swore, grabbed Shawn's arms and pulled him into a sitting position. His skin felt cold and clammy. He pressed two fingers against his jugular; his pulse was too slow. Lassiter pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

Shapiro had set the scene well. He'd left a burnt spoon, lighter, and syringe on the table. If Shawn had been an escort, and this hadn't been a sting operation, the police probably would have thought exactly what Shapiro had intended them to think. It infuriated Lassiter.

Gus came in through the back door.

"What happened in—" He froze when he saw Shawn.

"Where's Shapiro?" Lassiter asked grimly.

"Juliet's locking him in the squad car," Gus said, his eyes quickly looking the implements on the table. Suddenly he turned on his heel and bolted from the room, colliding with O'Hara who was just entering.

"What went wrong in here?" she asked, turning briefly to watch Gus running full tilt toward the Psychmobile.

"He's been doped," Lassiter said. "Probably heroin. I've called the ambulance. Keep an eye on Shapiro and direct the paramedics inside when they show. That sick bastard's going down for this." O'Hara left, reluctantly.

Lassiter grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Shawn's torso. "Stay with me, Shawn. Help's on the way." Lassiter hoped it arrived in time. The average ambulance response time for their area was ten minutes. But a heroin overdose could kill a person in under five. Not knowing if Shawn had a tolerance for opioids, Shapiro had probably dosed him pretty heavily. Lassiter was not optimistic.

"I didn't even see it coming," Shawn whispered, his voice drowsy.

"You're going to be okay," Lassiter said, wishing desperately that he believed what he was saying. "Keep breathing. Keep talking. Uh, tell me about things you like."

"I like waitresses," Shawn said.

"Okay." Lassiter had expected something like pineapples, or 80s movies. "What do you like about them?' Lassiter wrapped his arms around Shawn, rubbing his twitching muscles through the blanket.

"They bring me food," Shawn said. "I've slept with a lot of waitresses."

Lassiter laughed but felt sick inside.

"And more than a few waiters."

"Oh." _Well, that answers that question about Spencer._

"I don't care what Gus says." Shawn lifted an arm free of the blanket and ran it across Lassiter's cheek. "I like it that you're a man."

"That's, uh, that's good to know," Lassiter stammered.

"My feet were always pointed at you, Lassie." Shawn grabbed him by his tie, pulled him forward, and planted a clumsy kiss on him. His lips were alarmingly cold.

"Lassie?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Lassiter grabbed a waste paper basket and held Shawn forward as he retched into it. He tried not to take it personally. The door burst open and he turned, hoping to see the paramedics, although it was too early for them to have arrived. It was Gus, carrying a handful of something wrapped in plastic.

"Out of my way," Gus said aggressively.

He grabbed Shawn by his slack jaw and tilted his head up. He ripped open one of the plastic casings and pulled out what looked like a small perfume bottle with a spongy arrowhead top. He shoved the object into Shawn's nose and squeezed the trigger on it firmly. Nothing happened.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter asked.

"It's Naloxone," Gus explained. "It counteracts opioid overdose."

Lassiter checked Shawn's pulse and breathing; they were alarmingly slow.

"Well it's not working," Lassiter was trying to keep a lid on the panic he was feeling welling up inside him.

"It's working," Gus said. "We can dose him again in another two minutes." Lassiter and Gus sat on the sofa, looking at Shawn. It was the longest two minutes of their lives. Moments after the second dose Shawn took a deep breath and became alert.

"Did we get Shapiro?" Shawn asked.

"Yeah," Lassiter said, leaning back on the sofa, now physically and emotionally exhausted. "You got him."

The ambulance arrived.


	6. Spencer For Hire Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lassiter sat in his Crown Vic, enjoying the recently repaired air conditioning. At least now he didn't feel as if he were being boiled in a bag. He looked at the witness summonses on the passenger seat and then to the nondescript door of the Bodyboys escort agency. It was the last task of a long day in what had been a stressful week. Part of the stress came from the fact that the week had been entirely Spencer–free. A few months ago he would have described such a week as blissful, and thought happily of the many hours of work he could do uninterrupted by Shawn's attention-seeking visions, obscure film references, or inappropriate touching. Now every moment without Shawn's shenanigans reminded him of how wrong things had gone.

Lassiter sat in his Crown Vic, enjoying the recently repaired air conditioning. At least now he didn't feel as if he were being boiled in a bag. He looked at the witness summonses on the passenger seat and then to the nondescript door of the Bodyboys escort agency. It was the last task of a long day in what had been a stressful week. Part of the stress came from the fact that the week had been entirely Spencer–free. A few months ago he would have described such a week as blissful, and thought happily of the many hours of work he could do uninterrupted by Shawn's attention-seeking visions, obscure film references, or inappropriate touching. Now every moment without Shawn's shenanigans reminded him of how wrong things had gone.

Since the Shapiro sting a deep well of guilt had sprung up within him. He felt guilty about having put Shawn in danger. Yes, he'd opposed the sting in the first place, but when it came right down to it, Shawn had been his responsibility, and he'd almost died. The man was a civilian, regardless of how closely he worked with the department. He couldn't just be used that way. He felt guilty about having caved to pressure from Vick and the mayor's office to close the Shapiro case as quickly as possible. If he'd had more time he could have placed a cop undercover at the agency and Shawn wouldn't have been involved.

 _Of course when have I ever been able to prevent Shawn from involving himself?_ That was no excuse, of course. Butting in was just what Shawn did. He knew that, and should have been ready for it. His fault again.

Most of all he felt guilty that he'd enjoyed holding Shawn, despite the horrible circumstances. This acknowledgement was especially humiliating, and Lassiter kept pushing it to the back of his mind.

 _What kind of a sick freak gets off on holding someone who's having a heroin overdose?_ He asked himself.

Yet some other part of his mind insisted on dwelling on the memory. After the third day he began to wonder if he had imagined the kiss.

None of this was something he could talk to anyone about. O'Hara was already looking daggers at him because he hadn't visited Shawn in the hospital. Instead he'd buried himself in processing Shapiro and in tying up the loose ends that would ensure a secure conviction and a punitive sentence. It was no surprise that Shawn hadn't been by the station all week. Lassiter couldn't blame him. How do you confront someone whose carelessness almost got you killed?

Lassiter pulled out his cell and punched in the first four numbers of Shawn's phone number before hanging up again. He'd done that a dozen times throughout the week, but hadn't been able to bring himself to actually let it ring. Even if he hung up before Shawn answered, he would see that Lassiter had called. And then he might call back. And despite all his soul searching, Lassiter still didn't know what to say.

 _I may as well get this over with_ , he thought, looking at the summonses. _Then this horrible day can end with a scotch. Or two. Or three._

Serving the papers to the witnesses in the Shapiro case was his last task on the case, save for actually testifying in court himself. He shuffled through them. One for Trevor Dacosta, one for Claude White, the telephone operator who had taken the calls that has sent Lamar Valdez and Ryan Tran to their doom, and one for Shawn Spencer. He supposed he could always mail that last one if he had to. He grabbed the documents, shut off the car and stepped out, locking it behind him just to be safe.

Although most people think of escort agencies as a night-time business, Bodyboys actually ran from noon until four a.m., and did most of its business between four and eight in the evening. Arriving at the end of his shift, at 6 p.m., Lassiter was walking into the escort equivalent of happy hour.

Lassiter walked through the door and waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The room was filled with men, most of them paired off in couples, drinking and talking. He scanned the room for the burly form of Trevor Dacosta and finally spotted him at the bar.

A guy in an open necked dress shirt and chinos approached him, flashed a welcoming smile and asked if he'd like to get a drink.

"No thanks," Lassiter said, flashing his badge. "I'm here to see Mr. Dacosta. On business." The young man shrugged and smiled, and Lassiter walked past him and headed for the bar.

Lassiter placed a hand lightly on Dacosta's shoulder and he turned around. He was dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt and drinking a pale ale. He looked up at Lassiter with bright, alert eyes.

"Mr. Dacosta," he said, "it's Head Detective Carlton Lassiter."

"Right." Dacosta smiled and his gaze darted quickly down Lassiter's tall frame and back to his face again. "I remember you. What can I do for you, detective?"

"I brought the witness notices for the Shapiro case." He handed Dacosta the stack of papers.

"Claude won't be in until tomorrow," Trevor said, leafing through the sheets, "but I can give it to him then." Trevor looked at Lassiter quizzically. "How'd you know Shawn Spencer was here?"

Lassiter started. In his haste to get the task over with he must have just scooped up all three summonses.

"Is he?" he looked around the room in what he hoped was a casual manner, expecting to see Shawn secreted in some dark corner making out with a tight-bodied twenty-something.

"He's in the back," Trevor said. "I'll let you through." He grabbed his beer and walked over to a curtained entryway that was even darker than the lounge. Lassiter felt his way along the wall, through a heavy curtain and around a corner. Suddenly the hall was filled with light as Dacosta opened a door at the end and waved Lassiter through.

After the darkness of the lounge, the light of the back room was blinding, and he could hear before he could see. He could hear laughter.

"And he cleaned my toilet!" a young voice said over the din. "For like, an hour. And all I had to do was go in there every few minutes and call him names."

Lassiter's eyes adjusted to the light and he saw four men sitting around a desk, smiling and drinking coffee. Three of them were wearing telephone headsets, waiting for calls to come in to the switchboard. The fourth was Shawn Spencer.

"That's crazy," Shawn said. "Does toilet guy do apartments or is he bathrooms only?"

Lassiter cleared his throat and the four of them looked up.

"Hey, Lassie!" Shawn smile widened, but there was something tentative behind his eyes.

 _Probably resentment and blame,_ Lassiter thought.

"This is that friend I was telling you about earlier," Shawn explained. The three men gave Lassiter a knowing smile. It was unnerving.

 _What had Shawn been saying about him? Did Shawn see him as some kind of funny character to be described for entertainment, like the toilet guy?_

Part of him couldn't blame Shawn if he did.

"Is there somewhere we could talk?" Shawn asked the man who'd just told the toilet guy story. "Alone?"

"Of course," he said. "Use one of the VIP rooms." He pointed down a hall.

Shawn took Lassiter by the wrist and pulled him down the hall and into what looked like a small hotel suite, complete with sofa, coffee table, television and DVD player, and queen sized bed. One wall was entirely mirrored, reflecting the room back to itself.

Lassiter's gaze took in the bowl of condoms on the nightstand. This was where escorts brought men for sex. Just being alone there with Shawn made him feel as if he were doing something illicit.

Since Shawn's trip to the hospital Lassiter had been thinking about what he would say when he finally saw him again. _I'm sorry I put you in danger? I'm sorry you almost died and I was helpless to stop it?_ Nothing seemed adequate. He wanted to tell him how gutting it felt to almost lose something he'd never had. Now that Shawn was standing in front of him, he didn't know where to begin.

"Listen," Shawn began, "I know you're probably angrier than B.A Baracus on a fifteen hour coach flight to Australia, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

" _You're_ sorry," Lassiter frowned.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Our sting was supposed to be all My Own Private Idaho and instead it went all River Phoenix. My bad."

"You think it was your fault?" he asked, the creases on his forehead deepening. It hadn't occurred to him that Shawn might take it this way. He should have called earlier and made it clear. Another thing to add to his pile of guilt.

"I know it was, and I'm sorry I almost screwed up your collar. I know what the Shapiro murder meant to you guys. I know it was a big deal. You didn't want me on the case, and you didn't want me in the sting and you were right. I fucked it up."

"What on earth," Lassiter said slowly, "makes you think I blame any of that on you?"

"Well," Shawn's ears blushed red and he glanced down at his shoes. "When you didn't come by the hospital or the office, or call or anything, I knew you were mad. And I talked it over with Gus and he agreed that I pretty much stuck my face in the fail fan on this one And I'd like to make it up to you."

"I wasn't mad," Lassiter said. He ran a hand over his face. "I thought you were going to die, Shawn. Do you have any idea how terrified that made me?"

"It made me realize something too." Shawn reached out and turned the lock on the door.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter searched Shawn's face for any sign of deception or indication that this was the start of some joke.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Shawn walked forward until he was inches away and then stood there, waiting for Lassiter to close the space between them. The sexual energy between them had always been latent and deniable—a background noise to their professional relationship. Suddenly it was open and explicit. Lassiter felt naked.

Their eyes locked. Shawn's were a dark hazel, and slightly glassy. Lassiter detected no smell of drink on Shawn's breath, only coffee. It was lust then, not alcohol. The thought sent a wave of heat moving through his veins like a venom.

 _Spencer actually wants me._

"We can't," Lassiter said. But he was already reaching forward to place a hand tentatively on Shawn's hip, fighting the urge to pull him forward.

"Of course we can," Shawn said. "You're a man and I'm a…guy." He put a palm on Lassiter's back, pressing him forward ever so gently.

Lassiter ran a hand along Shawn's jaw line, feeling the stubble bristle against his fingers. Shawn turned his head into the caress, and Lassiter wiped his thumb across Shawn's lower lip, soft and wet.

Lassiter swallowed.

"Not here," he said, glancing at the bed. "Not in," he paused, "this kind of a place."

"The place isn't important," Shawn said. "Although if it makes you feel better you can put some money on the dresser."

"We should wait," Lassiter said, but his fingers were already raking into Shawn's tousled hair, and cupping the back of his head.

"I'm tired of waiting," Shawn said, running a tongue quickly across his lower lip. "I could die waiting. We both could."

"It should be special," Lassiter said, his resolve melting in the heat radiating off of Shawn's body.

"We are special."

Lassiter felt a flush run up his spine at Shawn's words. _We_ , Lassiter thought, his mind reeling. _He'd said we._

His mouth descended to Shawn's, tentative at first and then more aggressive, wet, and eager. Shawn gripped his dress shirt with his fists and clung to him, as if he might try to escape. He could felt Shawn's desperate moans reverberate through his chest. Lassiter pulled back, inhaling Shawn's scent as deeply as he could.

 _One more hurdle to leap._

"What if," Lassiter asked, his voice raw and his breath ragged now, "I'm looking for more than just sex?"

Shawn grasped Lassiter's tie and slowly let it slide through his fingers. Then he loosened the knot and pulled it open, leaving it dangling down his shirtfront.

"I really like you Lassie," Shawn said, looking up at him with shining eyes. "For you, everything is negotiable."

Shawn pushed his thigh forward and Lassiter's legs parted without him even thinking to do so. He could feel Shawn's erection hard against his leg. Shawn's hips rocked forward and he ground against him.

"Have you done this before?" Shawn whispered against his neck.

"Yes," Lassiter lied. There was no way he could admit crossing that line for Shawn. He'd had chances—offers even—but he'd always turned them down. No man had gotten under his skin the way Shawn had. He was willing to cross that line now, but he that didn't mean he was ready to reveal everything that doing so would mean to him.

Shawn pulled his t-shirt up and off, tossing it onto the bed. Lassiter ran a hand across Shawn's bare chest and down his smooth, flat stomach. His body was impossibly soft skin over hard muscle. The combination was intoxicating. His fingertips teased over the trail of tiny brown hairs leading into his jeans. Lassiter grabbed the waistband and twisted Shawn's jeans open, relieving the pressure on his erection.

Shawn surged forward and kissed him hard, and Lassiter stepped backward until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. Shawn tried to push him down onto it, but he resisted.

 _No,_ he told himself firmly _. Whatever else I do in here, I will not use that bed._

Lassiter kissed his way down Shawn's neck and then across his collarbone to his flat brown nipples. He licked one into a point and then gently sucked and pulled on it with his teeth. Shawn groaned and pushed forward again. Lassiter pushed back and repeated the action on the other nipple.

Shawn whimpered and then spoke through gritted teeth, "Please."

"Turn around." Lassiter said. Shawn complied and Lassiter pulled him against him, pressing his own hardness against Shawn's ass. His lips latched onto Shawn's neck, sucking and biting him as he pushed Shawn's pants and boxers down to his knees. Shawn's knees buckled slightly and Lassiter wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him up. The pressure and heat of Shawn's naked ass against him was exhilarating. He forced himself to ride the edge of arousal without giving in and taking Shawn here on the bed, like God-only-knew how many other men had done to the escorts who worked here.

Lassiter watched in the mirror as he wrapped his fist around Shawn's erection and began to stroke him slowly. He couldn't take his eyes off of Shawn—his mouth was open in a wordless gasp, his lids were closed in pleasure. Even in this place, debasing as it was, he was beautiful. Lassiter's erection strained against his pants. Shawn's hands reached back and groped for his belt, but Lassiter pressed forward, trapping them immobile between their bodies.

"That can wait," he whispered into Shawn's ear. "Just enjoy it."

Lassiter released his grip on Shawn's erection and he whimpered a protest. He brought his hand to his mouth and quickly wet it, then grasped him in his slick palm and stroked with renewed force. If the sounds Shawn was making were any indication, it was working. He was mumbling incoherently, his hips bucking forward in jerky thrusts as his orgasm built up inside his balls. Shawn was gasping for breath now and he was trembling, as if he might shake apart at any moment. His legs were jelly and if it weren't for Lassiter's arm gripping him firmly around his waist he'd have crumpled to the floor.

 _I'm doing this to him,_ Lassiter thought, flushing with pleasure. _He's coming for me._

"Lassie," Shawn moaned his name and arched forward, spraying into Lassiter's fist, onto the hardwood floor and across his own stomach and chest. Lassiter held him tightly as the rush of orgasm washed over Shawn's body. Shawn's breathing slowed to normal. Only then did he move, lowering Shawn to the bed and sitting beside him, staring at his own semen-covered hand. He raised it slowly to his mouth and tentatively licked one of his fingers. Shawn tasted sweet.

"That was amazing," Shawn said, leaning forward, arms resting on his legs. "I feel like I'm supposed to pay you."

Lassiter laughed, licking his hand again. "You can owe me."


End file.
